The Wizard in Distress
by Crazypreacher
Summary: So I wrote a Saruman/Gandalf slash fic. Just kill me now XD But seriously, they are like my very first ship. I just had to get this off my chest.


No matter how hard Saruman of Many Colours tried to pretend that everything was going splendidly, he knew perfectly well that it wasn't. The one that was kept at the highest plane of Orthanc, the one of whom Saruman tried so hard not to think kept nagging at the mind of the once White Wizard. Saruman was growing restless and irritable, and in given circumstances, when fates presented him with new challenges every day, this was hardly a welcome development. One night he decided to have some much deserved rest and to truly contemplate the position he had cornered himself in. He ordered that no one should bother him in his study, yet found that such change wasn't of much help. He wasn't even able to concentrate enough to read – something that had never happened to him before.

During his time in the East Saruman had developed a taste for Haradrim poetry; yet even these charming small books with their intricate lettering and intricate metaphors proved unable to divert him. Haradrim poetry concerned itself almost exclusively with carnal pleasures, of which Saruman never thought much; matters of religion and spirituality, which Saruman was hardly able to take seriously due to his origins; and romantic love – a subject, which would normally provoke no reaction in the Wizard, but of late had made him recoil in disgust. So at last Saruman had no choice but to face those secret thoughts of his he would rather not.

The Wizard liked to think of himself as a creature foreign to any sort of belief and driven purely by knowledge. Yet there was one thing he believed unquestioningly – that he, Saruman of Many Colours, was the best, and therefore, deserved only the best. So it was only natural, after all, that he had found himself drawn to the Grey Wizard, against his own better judgment. Saruman knew the power that words tend to have over mortals, but it would seem the Maiar were not free from this power, either: for when Saruman would hear others praising him without making any comparisons, he would smile and accept it as due without a second thought, yet when one would mention Saruman's superiority over Gandalf, Saruman's pride would be tainted with a slight and completely irrational and ludicrous desire to challenge the detractor to a duel. For the Wizard knew that it was, in fact, Gandalf the Grey who was superior to him, even though he would rather give up his own staff than admit it.

Curunir's life both among the Valar and in the material world consisted partly of his silent, yet desperate attempts to guess if he was the only one who understood Gandalf's superiority over himself, and if not, if Gandalf himself did, as well. He had pondered this a thousand times and more, trying to solve the riddle of Olorin and understand what it was that made him superior, but the closest he had ever come to a definite answer was "modesty". In other circumstances, Saruman would brush such a laughable hypothesis aside, but when it came to the Grey Wizard, he couldn't help but give the idea some consideration – after all, if a specimen like the Grey Wizard held the – Iluvatar help him! – _virtue_ of modesty in high regard, there probably was something valuable about it, after all. Yet who could say how much of it all - the homely appearance he had chosen for himself, his friendship with the lesser races, etc. - was sincere, and how much was a sham to make himself feel noble and righteous and to please the old Nienna?

For it was another thing about Gandalf that never left Saruman at peace: he could never say with certainty what the Grey Wizard was thinking. The White Wizard fancied himself to have a way with words, but even so he could never dream to reach Gandalf's mastery of talking in riddles, saying at once everything and nothing. Most others, no matter their race, social standing and other attributes, were easy to read, but with Gandalf Saruman could never say whether he was sincerely praising his colleague or mocking him subtly. The thought alone was enough to make him mad; but in the end, the hope won over the suspicion and the imagination, encouraged by the suppressed affection, finished the work. Little by little, Saruman started to believe that Gandalf, like all the others, indeed considered Saruman his own superior and trusted his judgment – trusted it enough to follow him even in his bold affaire with the One Ring. Yet hope had made a fool of the White Wizard, and his childish fancy had led to a catastrophe.

Saruman groaned quietly and covered his face with his hands. The worst about the state in which he and Gandalf had found themselves was that it had revealed just how much the mortal world had engulfed him, Saruman, and reshaped him in its own primitive and pitiful image. Was that agent of his, Grima the Wormtongue, not the one he despised the most of all his despicable accomplices? And hadn't the wisest of the Wizards acted much the same as he had? One had turned against his own people for the sake of some wench, the other had started a deadly game with the Enemy himself partly just to impress one of his own subordinates.

Yet even more despicable than that was the certainty that Gandalf, even imprisoned and helpless, had won over Saruman nonetheless. Saruman knew it the moment when, during their last conversation, he had threatened the other Wizard with torture. Even as he had said it, he knew he would never fulfill this ghastly promise. Did Gandalf know it, as well? Yes. Probably. Certainly. If so, he also had to know what would follow some time or other – Saruman would come to him, all contrite and preferably tearful, acknowledge the righteousness of Gandalf's ways and beg for his forgiveness, which the Grey Wizard would certainly be charitable enough to give – that is, only in case it would be accompanied by self-humiliation. Saruman took a deep breath and unclenched his fists. After all, if a specimen like the Grey Wizard wasn't convinced of the magnificence of his plan, it probably wasn't quite so flawless.

The resolution didn't make Saruman feel any better, but if nothing else, it provided a way to untie the knot he had tangled, which was more than Saruman had had during all those days. The curtains on the windows to Saruman's study were drawn, so he was able to dwell in blissful ignorance for a short while longer without noticing the great eagles in the distance, flying away from Orthanc.

**Notes**:

The Haradrim being the fantasy equivalent to medieval Arab/Persian culture and Saruman being into Haradrim culture has been my headcanon ever since I have stumbled upon the "Tale of Ibrahim of Mosul and the Devil" from "1000 and 1 Nights". Have a look at it here, the similarities to the chapter titled "The Voice of Saruman" are uncanny: www . wollamshram . ca / 1001 / Vol_7 / tale 144 . htm


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